Deadly Curves
by Slytherin Quidditch Captain
Summary: A girl from the poorest district. One who did not want to be reaped. One who did not want to fight to the death. One who did not want to develop feelings for the man who held her fate in his hands and could kill her with the flick of a switch.
1. Prelogue

Deadly Curves

There were tears. Enough to drown in. Something many wished to do. Something she craved to do. But her eyes dried in shock long before there was a puddle deep enough to pull her struggling, pained emotions down in.

Down, down, up, up, up! Feelings stabbed so much nothing was left, sanity stretched so far that it ripped in half, unable to be sewn back together. Though they tried. Oh, they tried.

Blood runs down these walls. These long, white, solid walls. Covered in the crimson of innocent guilt. Blood dries under their nails. That's what all the makeup specialists are for. To pick the blood from under your nails and paint it another color. To piece you back together once you fell apart—or at least let it appear to the public that way.

She walks down these halls, her hair oily and unkempt, falling in rats and tangles down her back. What was once blonde is now mousy brown and dirty. Her nails are long and jagged, each one a different length from the others. They run down the walls, leaving scratches in the glass behind.

The girl doesn't know this. She does not know she appears as a homeless nobody. People whisper as she passes if they are new. If the people have been here before, they know she walks these halls regularly.

She doesn't know that no one recognizes her. If only they would pull back her hair, wash and style it, then do makeup and place her in an elegant dress . . . then they would see her. They would recognize her from the televisions mounted across the country. But no one does this. Many are scared to help her, to reach out. The others know that even if they cleaned her up and made her presentable, it wouldn't matter. She is being held far from the spotlight.

For if the people knew what broke her . . .


	2. Flaming Rain

(I don't own the Hunger Games franchise in any way, guys. I'm not sure if this is where I am supposed to put that little disclaimer, but oh well.)

Flaming Rain

The world watches. The citizens watch. The haters and lovers watch. The families watch. The babies, only just born, watch.

And he watches.

His speech has just ended, the large screens turning black. They will be long gone in an hour, if not less. And the stage will be dirty again until it is cleaned next year by the Capitol officials, who find anything remotely dirty a disgrace to themselves.

I stand obediently in line, my hands clasped. It will be happening any time now. A bead of sweat drips onto my dress from the corner of my jaw.

People shuffle into lines, twitter anxiously, and readjust clothing. No one wants to be called onto the stage looking like a fool if a button is undone or a zipper not zipped. Not that it will be much of a surprise. Most of these people have their names in the reaping bowl tens of times. Just for food. Not for fame, like it is in District Two.

Finally, the escort, Effie Trinket, mounts the stage. Her outfit is ridiculous, something only a citizen of the Capitol could wear. Her shoes are so high that she teeters as she walks, as if threatening to fall.

She finally makes it to the microphone, her pale lips widening to reveal perfect teeth. "Now, ladies first!"

I wring my hands, trying to not get nervous or cry, when in reality I am terrified and had to slip outside to throw up this morning.  
Effie Trinket mulls her hand around inside the bowl as if searching for an imaginary fish. She then daintily pulls a tiny slip of paper out of the bowl. My mind flies to my friends. I will be heartbroken if one of them gets picked. Only one that I can think of would be able to make it out of the arena. And my precious brother . . . if his name is drawn, I will not be able to volunteer, for he is male.

"Indigo Kismet!" Effie reads out with glee.

My feet are frozen to the cracked cement. A flock of noisy birds screech madly and fly out of a nearby tree.

That's me.

Suddenly my feet are unfrozen. I walk, my head held high, feet hitting the ground with sharp taps. I hear my brother shrieking my name, but it does no good, falling on silent ears.

_Show no weakness_.  
Mother cries for me too.  
_Show no weakness_.  
Father yells my name.  
_Show no weakness_.

I have mounted the stage, eyes surprisingly dry for all of the fear I had for this moment. Effie grasps my arm, her grip shockingly tight for someone so petite and tiny. She steers me to the left of the microphone, by the girls' reaping bowl.

"Now for the gentlemen!" Effie releases me and hobbles over to the boys' bowl. She takes less time to withdraw a name this time.  
"Peeta Mellark!"

A blonde boy steps slowly from his line of seventeen year-olds. His face is shocked, like he would never in his wildest dreams imagine this happening. Most presume themselves from this fate, but nothing in this civilization is fair. Surely that would make your mind up about some things.

"Come on, dear, right here . . . there you go!" Effie says happily. I am already hating this woman. Be it how pleased she is with dooming two children to their deaths, or the fact that she represents everything the Capitol is—silly, playful, uncaring, only craving power, attention, and entertainment.

"Thank you all," the mayor says into the microphone, flashing me a grim smile. I turn quickly and am led, along with Peeta and Effie, through a few corridors until they place Peeta and I in separate rooms.

I sit down shakily in a chair by the window. I could jump out now, if I wanted. I would fall several stories, but it would mean well. No Games for me. Not if I'm dead.

The door opens a few minutes later. Mother steps in with Father and Josh. They all rush forward, each one wrapping me up in a tight hug.  
"How—how are you?" Mother asks. "I'm sorry . . . that's a horrible question to ask . . . Are you alright . . . sorry . . . that's not much better."  
Josh climbs in my lap, even though he is twelve and far too old to really fit comfortably. Mother keeps her hands holding mine. Father grips my shoulder in reassurance. We remain in comfortable silence until Peacekeepers arrive and whisk them away. They bid me goodbye, vowing to see me again, alive, and good luck.

There are still no tears. Only slowly unthawing pain and fear.

A couple of friends come inside, wishing me good luck and crying all over me. I am out of it, even when the Peacekeepers take me out of the room and shove me into the backseat of a tinted black car with Peeta and Effie.  
We drive to the train station. A gleaming silver train awaits us, straight from the Capitol. We all three board it and then we are jetting off into an unknown world.


	3. Bullets of Luxury

(Still don't own any of the Hunger Games. Except my character I created. That's it, folks.)

Bullets of Luxury

The train is quite amazing. If it wasn't taking me to where it is going, I might actually be enjoying myself.

But I'm not.

I immediately seat myself in one of the comfy chairs, not looking anywhere but at the rather expensive-looking floor.

How did this happen to me? Me, picked out of hundreds of other girls.

I sigh in defeat and slump into the chair. No one cares about m posture now. That will come with the interviews.

Peeta takes a seat next to me just as the disgusting, drunken, and unclean man who fell off the stage at the reaping comes staggering in—my mentor, Haymitch Abernathy.

He doesn't even knowledge Peeta or I's existence Instead, he wobbles over to the table with liquor on it, pouring himself a good drink. I feel Peeta glance at me, as if asking something, but when I simply turn back to staring at the floor, he looks back to Haymitch, works up the courage, and asks, "What are we supposed to do?"

Haymitch belches, stumbles to a chair, and falls down. Peeta helps him up into the chair while I remain seated. Haymitch belches again, this time the smell creeping up into my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose and look away, out the window.

"Do you not approve of me, sweetheart?"

It takes me a moment to realize Haymitch is addressing me—he surely wouldn't call Peeta 'sweetheart'.

"As a matter of fact, I do. You seem kind of lousy. Every time I see you you're drunk and making it a point to make a fool of our district." I cross my arms and frown.

Haymitch simply laughs. "Most Capitol people don't even know District Twelve exists. The tributes always die at the Cornucopia. Not remembered."

"Some make it farther," Peeta butts in. "A couple of years back, a girl almost won."

"Almost. She was scared and became reckless. Became desperate and ran out into the middle of a feast. She was going to die anyways. Starving." Haymitch takes another swig of his drink.

"She still did well," Peeta defends. "At least she tried."

"She didn't try. A career pinned her down. She had a knife and practically handed it to him to end her life. He killed her with the very weapon she killed someone else for at the very beginning. She did everything but try."

I swallow. I recall those games. The tribute was a girl in my grade. Twelve when she died. She performed very well for being so young. I would have died.

"So, any advice?" Peeta asks Haymitch.

Haymitch chuckles. "Stay alive. Find water." He gets to his feet and makes it a few feet before throwing up. He then falls down into the mess.

I wince and stand. Peeta helps me pull him from the sick. "I'll get him," Peeta reassures.

I nod my thanks for not having to help Peeta give Haymitch a shower. Then I go off down the hallway. I find my room easy enough. Effie pointed it out before she retreated to her room to fix her makeup before dinner—something I plan to skip. I don't have much of an appetite anyways.


	4. Shiny Throne of Slaves

(Don't own a single thing about the Hunger Games)

Shiny Throne of Slaves

My nightmares are full of horrible things. I picture myself killing everyone in the games with a cane. The scenario then morphs into one with me standing nude on a stage before a tinted glass pane that I shatter by blinking my eyes.

Needless to say, I awaken drenched in sweat and panting.

I peel the sheets from my body and slip out of the comfortable bed. My blonde hair fell out of the bun my mother pulled it up into last night. Now it is only a tangled mess I brush through with my fingers.

After gargling some water and splashing myself awake, I use the restroom and strip off my dress from the reaping. The smooth, white cotton falls to the floor in an innocent pile of cloth.

I dig through the drawers and find a pair of tight black pants and a loose gray shirt. The clothing is so simple, yet it is made perfectly. I cannot find a seam or a single place that a thread was misplaced during sewing.

I hesitate a moment before going into breakfast. I can see Peeta animatedly speaking to Haymitch, who looks slightly more clean and sober than yesterday.

The door opens and I walk in.

"Ah, look who decided to grace us with her presence," Haymitch slurs. He's clearly not completely sober.

Peeta looks up at me. "Haymitch was just sharing some strategy for staying alive in the Games."

"If you aren't intending on being a killing machine," Haymitch mutters darkly. "This one here has the persona of a killer."

I frown and throw myself into a chair. "I don't want to have to kill anyone."

"That'll get you real far," Haymitch growls.

"Well, do you care to share some methods, or are you just giving up on us like you do the tributes every year?" I ask.

Haymitch stops buttering his biscuit. "Look." His bloodshot eyes lock onto mine. "I don't shut the tributes out each year. I try to help."

"How?" My anger is rising with this man that is supposed to be helping us. "You're constantly drunk, you don't give any advice, you just aren't helpful at all!"

"Sweetheart, don't get angry with me." I can tell Haymitch isn't exactly pleased with me. "When you get stuck with two children every year and have to prepare them for a death that is inevitable, you distance yourself because you don't want to be anymore upset when they die. That kind of guilt and depression is horrible. Especially when you still can't get over your own games."

"You won though!" I say heatedly.

"Winning only makes it worse. Means you went through even more people to get to the top." Haymitch takes an extra-long drink from his flask sitting on the table.

"So are you going to help us or not?" I ask, trying to calm myself down.

"Pass the jam," Haymitch demands.

"Are you really going to be a coward?!" I interrogate.

"I said, pass the jam."

I don't even mean to do it, but the knife in my hand somehow ends up stuck in the table, one millimeter from Haymitch's hand.

He looks up at me, not even surprised. "Wow. You killed a place-mat and you're not even to the Capitol yet."

He removes the knife, ignoring Effie's shriek of, "That is MAHOGANY!"

"You want to live, eh? Don't go into the Cornucopia for any reason. Instant death wish." I nod, and Haymitch continues. "Find water as quickly as possible. Stick close to that water source, but stay out of sight because other tributes might be using it as well."

He gives us advice until finally Effie interrupts saying we are almost to the Capitol.

I leave the table and pull my shoes on. I feel bad leaving my dress here, but I honestly don't want any reminders of the reaping except the family ring on the ring finger of my right hand. I twist the thick silver band and return to the sitting area of the train where Effie dabs on a fresh coat of makeup, Peeta peers expectantly out the windows, and Haymitch is nowhere to be seen.

I join Peeta by the window. "We're almost there," he murmurs, curiosity and wonder evident in his voice.

We are almost the same height, even though I am fourteen, almost fifteen, and he is sixteen. I am just taller for my age; most people take me for sixteen or seventeen.

Suddenly, as the train comes through a gap in the mountains and into a valley, a huge mass of gleaming buildings comes into view. I gasp at the sight of it—it is truly beautiful and awe-worthy.

"Wow," Peeta says quietly.

I can't say I agree with him more.


	5. Citizens of the Bonding Promise

Okay guys, this is my first time to post a story/use to post anything, and I'm still getting used to it. I'm assuming this is where I put my little author's note so: **I would totally love it to be able to read reviews. If you read my story please leave a review, even if it's small. I love being able to have people read my work and it honestly helps when you respond! Please and thank you! :)**

Citizens of the Bonding Promise

The citizens of the Capitol rave at us, all yelling and crying and chanting our names. It feels good in a way, knowing thousands of people know my name and apparently like me. More than I like myself for feeling this way.

Peeta waves at them all, his face beaming. I feel conflicted. Part of me wants to pull him out of the citizens' hungry views. The other half wants to push him out of the way so that all they see is me. The reason for which they are cheering for us makes me realize how the latter is so very wrong.

So I pull myself away from the window and take my seat at the table again.

"Someone doesn't like the spotlight, huh?"

My neck snaps around. Haymitch has appeared. I choose to not answer him, instead crossing my arms and shutting my eyes.

"I take it you also didn't sleep well. I would say it must be hard to not sleep well, what, with everything in the Capitol being so perfected and comfortable. Then again, I wouldn't know. I've never tried one of their beds."

"I take it I'm not the only one having nightmares then," I say, a bit too harshly.

Haymitch gives a throaty chuckle. "It's never good when the nightmare start before the Games do."

The train comes to a gliding halt. As Effie is ushering us out the door, I stop and run back to get a sip of water to moisten my throat and lips. Only then do I happen to look up and spot the camera planted right inside my room. They were watching me sleep all night.

My face instantly flushes. I can hear Effie talking to herself. "I need to use the restroom really fast!" I holler at her.

"Oh! Oh my goodness, we are going to be _so late_."

With Effie temporarily satisfied with my excuse to slip back inside my bed chambers, I grab the towel rack, wrenching it from the wall, leaving a gaping hole behind.

Apparently they don't anticipate tributes breaking the cameras inside the trains, because it only takes two hits with the metal rod for the glass to shatter. I hit the actual camera four times to ensure I did it good damage.

"What was that?!" I hear Effie shriek.

"Nothing! Nothing. I tripped and knocked a vase off my bedside table," I lie quickly, but still convincingly.

"Oh dear." Is all Effie says as she shoos me out onto the platform.

A wave of bright clothing and painted faces greet me as I step out onto the platform. People scream my name and my face instantly turns red. I push any feelings aside and simply wave and smile tight-lipped at the people. I'm not going to act happy about being here, but I will enjoy my last moments of lavish and spoiled living before I have to go into that arena.


	6. The Leaping Tower

Alright, guys! Here's an update, and thanks a ton for reviewing, Mirror! That meant a lot! :) And I am improving on making the chapters longer. Sorry about that! I know this follows The Hunger Games closely, but I am changing a lot up farther on. I don't own the Hunger Games in any way though.

The Leaping Tower

I had been led through a building—the training center—and deposited in the District Twelve flat. It was penthouse and very spacious, yet somehow I got the feeling that our living space before the Games wasn't quite as luxurious as some of the higher districts'.

Peeta said nothing about this, so I followed suit. He seated himself in a chair and looked around, taking in every detail. I stood, my nose wrinkled. Despite my appearance, the smell of the apartment was not what bothered me; rather the lack of aroma.

Growing up, the smells of the world around me had always been comforting. I am severely far-sighted, and am currently wearing contact lenses that will be discarded in a few weeks time. Being unable to see until we could afford contact lenses had rendered me helpless in sensing the dangerous and difficult life surrounding me.

Smelling and hearing was always there when my eyesight wasn't. Yet another thing wrong here—there are no noises. No fans or clicking of machinery. Nothing.

Effie comes hurrying in behind us. "Alright, just make yourselves at home, and if you need anything, just call one of the Avoxes."  
At the sound of their name, two women step forward, each clothed in red, their hair pulled up in either a bun or low ponytail. I can't see their faces.

Effie teeters back out, pausing for a moment to wave enthusiastically.

I waste no time running to the bathroom once the door has closed behind Effie. The bile rising up my throat is a sure sign I am about to hurl.

I slam the bathroom door shut behind me, manually locking it. Vomit comes flooding out, making me even more sick. The nerves and stress are going to kill me before the arena does.

A few minutes later, Peeta is at the door, his kind voice worried. "Are you all right?" he asks.

Sweet, sweet, Peeta. Too kind and caring for his own damn good.

"I'm fine." I try to keep my voice from wavering. "Biscuits just didn't agree, that's all."

"Oh. Alright," Peeta says, sounding convinced. I hear his footsteps as he walks down the hallway to his sleeping quarters.

I throw up again, the sound of my own helpless retching making me even more sick.

When I am finally able to pull my head from the commode, I shakily stand and wash myself off in a cold shower. The buttons are immense, and I somehow end up hosing myself with the potent scent of what smelt to be black licorice. I hastily push random buttons, sending soaps that smell of soft but strong lavender. I hope the lavender covers up the licorice smell. That would be hard to explain. And embarrassing to admit I don't know how to use a shower.

I finally step out. A rug catches my attention. I hesitantly walk over to it, the tile cold on my feet. A few buttons are on the wall above it. Again, they are not labeled, just like in the shower. I push one and the mat bristles, sending flurries through my stomach and head. Only then do I realize it must have somehow made me sleepy—I sway and grip the wall to remain standing. Quickly mashing another button, I receive a cruel shock through the soles of my feet. I gasp in startle and pain. It shocked me awake. My hair is actually tingling and standing slightly on end.  
Giving up, I smash my whole hand on the wall. I am hit with a swinging sensation. My hair flies up around my head and then it falls. The strong blast of wind that just flew out of the rug and blasted me dry in seconds is gone.

Peeta has gone to bed. His door is closed, but not locked. I opened it as soon as I am out of the shower, still wrapped firmly in the towel from my shower. His golden hair reflects the light coming from his window. I swallow and slip back out.  
Now I sit on my bed, the telejector humming to live. I flip to the reapings.

District Ones' tributes are no doubt on shape and looking well. District Twos' are the same case. The children of that district are greedy to volunteer and be placed into the Games. From there no one is ecstatic to have their name drawn from the glass balls. The tribute from District Eleven gives my stomach a firm drop. She is tiny. Twelve years old.

The cameras go on to District Twelve. My name is drawn from the reaping bowl. Effie smiles and waves me forward encouragingly. I look scared to death at first, but with each step I take my face becomes emotionless and passive. Careless that I have been chosen. You can see the sweat drip on my shoulder.

Peeta is another story. Next to my almost-smirking face and bold posture, he looks pitiful. It's obvious he is scared as hell. It is as if he isn't trying to hide his fear and shock at all.

The cameras go back to Caesar Flickerman and he smiles saying that we can rest assured to be pleased with this year's tributes. Claudius Templesmith nods in agreement. A large blue wig matched by equally grimacing eyebrows are the last things I see before all I see is black.


	7. Girl on Fire

PLEASE review! I need feedback! and I did indeed make this chapter longer. A lot to cover.

Girl on Fire

"Wake up, sweetheart. Wake up. Wake up, dammit!"

I rise groggily, my eyes bleary. I left my lenses in on accident last night. Now my eyes feel stiff.

Haymitch stands before me. His shirt is tucked in sharply and his hair has been combed. He is also wearing nice shoes and clean pants for once. His large frown makes my stomach sink uneasily.

"You have ten minutes to go see _that_ excuse for a woman, take a shower or whatever it is you do in the mornings, and meet us at the elevator." Haymitch jerks his thumb towards the door. "So get up. And put some clothes on."  
My face flushes as I look down and see my towel I fell asleep in has crept up almost showing some things that I would not like my mentor to see. I pull it down hastily.

I obey Haymitch, though there is some grumbling and cursing under my breath once he has gone.  
One look in the mirror tells me it wouldn't hurt to take another shower, but I really don't have the time. I pull a comb through my tangled hair that has risen up around my head like a crown or halo and wash my face before pulling on the exact replica of the clothes I wore yesterday.  
I leave the room and join Peeta and Haymitch outside the elevator.

Haymitch is frowning yet again. "You're five minutes late."

"Like you can talk," I mutter. "You've been late to every reaping I can remember." If he hears me, he doesn't acknowledge my smart comment, but Peeta grins softly at me from behind Haymitch's back.

Haymitch stays in the elevator when we reach one of the lower floors. He wrinkles his nose as we step out. "Whichever one of you smells like licorice needs to ask the stylists to get that off." The doors close and he is flying right back up Twelve's penthouse suite.

Peeta raises his eyebrows. "So . . .?"

A fleet of Capitol-bred people appear suddenly, two grasping Peeta and the other three pulling me away. They take us into separate rooms, the doors sliding shut with a smooth _whoosh_ behind us.

The people—if you can call them that—plop me down in a chair that slides back and transforms into a long table. One woman is plump, the other is thin with aqua skin, and lastly a man with wild colored skin and hair as well.  
They all introduce themselves as Octavia, Venia, and Flavius. I smile thinly—which pleases them—and introduce myself as well. They croon over how pretty I am—natural, they say—and how my hair and eyes are '_positively_ perfect!'.

The three get right to work, waxing my legs, arms, armpits, and other places as well, which is very awkward. Each strip of paper being ripped my body makes my bite back a yelp.

They pluck and fix my eyebrows, claiming them atrocious. Then they move on, soaking my feet and hand sin some sort of pink solution that tingles and then burns. A funny white fizz bubbles out of my feet, which makes me freak out, trying to pull my feet from the liquid. Flavius grabs them, preventing me from pulling them from the warm liquid, saying,"It's dirt and other things that this wonderful chemical is pulling from your pores!" His accent only makes this statement funny, even though he was dead serious.

Once my hair has been glossed, straightened, curled, straightened again, and curled all over—they couldn't decide—I am pulled back up into a sitting position. Venia begins applying a small amount of powder on my face, neck, and hands. She then applies some red lip stain and eyeliner, giving me a more beautiful and dramatic look than I've ever had before in my life.

A man comes walking in a few minutes later, excusing the three stylists. He greets me warmly. His accent is not like the others. I don't see him as a Capitol citizen at all except the gold eyeliner donning his eyelids.  
His name is Cinna, and I tell him mine. He says he remembers me well—not only because he volunteered to be Twelve's fashion representative prior to our games—but because he says he found my beauty breathtaking. I thank him as I did Octavia, Flavius, and Venia.

"Now, can you take that robe off?" he asks politely.

"Um . . . yes, of course," I say, the awkward feelings creeping into my voice. My arms are stiff from the endless waxing as well as unease.

He walks around my nude body a few times then tells me I can put the robe back on. My face is scarlet, I'm sure. I jerk the robe back on, tying it securely as quickly as possible.

He twirls a strand of my golden hair around his finger before saying, "I think I can get somewhere with you," a smile playing across his features.

The black leotard/body suit is tight. Not uncomfortable, just _tight_.

Cinna walks me out to where the carriages are waiting. We are about to roll out in the Tribute Parade in several minutes. Our carriage will be last.

Peeta is matching me. He looks even more uncomfortable than me. The outfit adds to his nervous state, but the fact that every other tribute present is eying us doesn't relieve the tension.

Cinna helps us into the chariot, the black horses matching our attire. He smiles and holds up a lighter. "Now, this isn't actual fire," he starts. "But it appears like it. It will not burn you, but you will be . . . well, on fire."

Peeta swallows noisily beside me. I feel even more sick.

Cinna walks forward with the lighter, awaiting the time to set Peeta and I on fire.

The District Eleven chariot rolls out, and Cinna smiles, patting my back reassuringly. Just as our chariot begins to move, Cinna lights both Peeta and I's capes on fire.

I don't feel anything but fear really. As if meeting your death in a few weeks time isn't enough, they set you on fire before to amp up the nerves.

Seconds pass and all I feel is a strange warmth from behind me. Then someone's hand is holding mine. "You okay?" Peeta checks.

"Yes. Fine," I spit out, locking my teeth in the horror of falling out the back of the chariot.

Then the lights hit us. Millions of people are screaming, cheering, and yelling out district names. Peeta's firm grip is very comforting. I know he won't let me fly out of the back of this thing.

And then it's as if every single being in the stands notices the two human torches flying down the aisle, lighting up the darkening skies.  
These people are now screaming Peeta and I's names. The very same feeling that hit me on the train hits me now.

Glory.

I revel in the fame, even blowing kisses and managing to catch a rose. Peeta holds our hands high in the air. Someone yells that they love me.  
They love me. Us. They love us.

And I love them. The attention. The joy of being recognized has consumed me.

We roll to a stop and President Snow takes the stand, his bushy white hair catching the light from our costumes. My eyes shift to the right of the President, where I see a handsome man sitting as if his chair is a throne. From the light of our costumes, I know he is looking directly at us. At me. Peeta is still holding my hand beneath the front of the chariot.

Snow addresses us all, and then the chariots roll back. I try to not look at any of the other tributes because of their vicious whispers flying around about our costumes. They are jealous. Jealous of our amazing stylists, jealous of the attention, and jealous of our district.  
Haymitch, Peeta, and I are walking back to the elevator, Cinna and the stylists having already bid us goodnight.

"Quite fantastic. Great job, you two. Everyone loved you. Your costumes will be the rage in the Capitol for a while," Haymitch says, a note of pride in his deeper voice.

"Yes, quite the great job," another unknown male voice says from behind us. We all turn, Haymitch stopping and then stepping forward. "Head Gamemaker Crane," Haymitch says somewhat stiffly as he shakes the man's hand. Only then do I recognize him as the man I was watching during the Parade.

"Please, Haymitch, call me Seneca. The whole title is a bit of a mouthful."

"Especially for someone who has only just started," Haymitch says, and I detect a bit of a not-so-well hidden jab in his words.  
Seneca Crane turns to me and I take notice of the rose in his hand. "Your tribute left this in the chariot bay. I thought I might return it." He hands me the rose. I see a small spot of red on his hand. A thorn is stuck right below his thumb joint. He notices me looking and closes his hand, putting it behind his back.

"Farewell, Haymitch." Seneca Crane and Haymitch shake hands once more. The Gamemaker never once acknowledges Peeta's existence.  
I watch him walk away. He has a bit of a cocky strut.

Inside the elevator, Haymitch says, "Watch out for that man."

"Why?" I ask quickly.

"He's the man who decides when he wants you to die. And how."

"But isn't he just _one _of those people?" I ask, puzzled on what is behind his title.

"He's the _Head_ Gamemaker. Was promoted a couple of years ago. This is his third year." Haymitch smacks his lips. "The young ones think they own the world. Come up with much crazier challenges than the more experienced ones. And Crane is very smart and cunning. Great with words _and_ people."

Peeta frowns. "Why did he come all the way up here to return a flower?"

I mentally thank Peeta for asking the question that has been on my mind since that Crane man appeared. It's only a flower, one I had forgotten about anyways.

"He has his means of getting what he wants. Part of that is being Snow's right-hand-man. Knows he can do almost whatever he wants and get away with it." Haymitch steps out of the elevator, Peeta and I following him. "Probably wanted to get a better look at you two."

"Can he not watch on the screen like everyone else?" Peeta asks. His voice has an edge of worry and I understand it. Head Gamemaker Crane had an intimidating air about him. Made you wonder whether you were worthy of his presence or not.

"He was at the Parade," I say suddenly, surprising myself.

Haymitch turns. "Obviously _one_ of you is observant." He takes a long swig from a bottle on the counter. "Now, you should probably get to bed. Training starts at ten. Try and get there a little early. And do not show off your main talents." A confused look suddenly crosses his face. "Speaking of which, what are your talents?"

I look at Peeta. He shrugs.

"Well, that solves it. Try everything out then. But if you think you might be good at a combat skill, save it. The Gamemakers will be doing individual evaluations soon enough. That's when you show off." Haymitch nods at us and then leaves for his own separate quarters, taking the bottle of vodka with him.


	8. Killing the Monsters

Thanks to those of you who reviewed so much! Please enjoy :)

Killing the Monsters

The training center is already full when Peeta and I arrive. Our clothes are matching spandex outfits with our district number on the arm and nape of the neck. All of the tributes stand in a wide circle around a woman named Atala. She explains the rules: no fighting and such.  
We all break off, Peeta trailing me to a knot-tying station. I am good at undoing knots, not making them. Peeta is the opposite, so we work well together, each helping the other out.

As we are walking across the wide room, I look up and notice another separate room built into the wall higher up. Several older men mill about, some lounging in chairs and drinking, eating small appetizers, or chatting with each other.

"Those must be the Gamemakers," Peeta says.

My eyes scan for the man from last night and then I spot him. He is wearing the same thing as I saw him in last night: a black vest type of shirt with a red diagonal stripe with some other red here and there. He is also wearing a pair of white pants and shiny black shoes. His raven black hair is parted severely and gelled down. An intricate beard brings the Capitol look to him.

His eyes immediately lock onto mine, the intense blue sending shivers along my skin. We watch each other as I walk all the way over to the next station.

"Wait—Indigo . . . weren't we going to the plant station?" Peeta asks.

"You can," I say, my voice strong. I feel the need to show off all of a sudden.

My feet walk up the steps to the hand-to-hand combat station. The trainer smiles, a fit man of about nineteen.

"Alright, are you ready to learn hand-to-hand combat?" he asks.

"Yes." I smile. I'm sure I'll be good at this station. My brother and I always wrestled at home.

"Let's just do a dry-run first, and we'll see how much you need to learn or improve on."

I nod and follow suite as he bends into a crouching position. He jumps forward and I roll to the left, springing to my feet and kicking him squarely in the back.

He, however, is prepared for this. He grabs my ankle as I swing my leg at him, bringing me to the ground. A gasp of breath flies out of my mouth.

I hear several people laughing, which brings me to my feet. I flip backwards as he grabs for me, smiling as he falls right onto his face. I spin and jump onto his back, pinning him down. He throws me off, but I land agilely. He lunges again, this time catching me in the torso, knocking me down to the ground. I can feel his muscles tensing under his shirt.

He has me pinned, sure, but I have my options. I knee him in the groin and he groans and rolls off of me. I jump him then, my hands on his throat, straddling his waist.

"You win," he croaks.

I smile. The feeling of power is immense.

I stand and suddenly I'm back on the ground, my arm pinned behind my back. "Never believe a tribute," the trainer murmurs in my ear huskily.  
I squirm. He flips me over. I feel betrayed and then it hits me.

Sinking one hand's nails into his bicep, I use the other to unsheathe his practice knife.

His grip on my arm loosens. I take this opportunity to shove him off of me, pinning him to the floor instead. I take the knife I removed from his belt and tap the place right over his heart on his vest. A beep signals his 'death'.

I stand and he looks at me in shock.

Upon turning I see that the whole room of tributes and trainers are watching me. Seneca Crane is standing with his hands still on the arms of his seat, an unbelieving look dawning on his face. The rest of the Gamemakers are all watching on in shock, awe, and confusion.  
"How did you do that?" the trainer asks. "You—you even got my knife!"

"I—I don't know," I say quickly. And it's true. I _don't_ know how I did it. Quick thinking and distraction, I suppose.

Hurrying down the steps of the combat station, I make sure to bump into Peeta as I walk past.

**Seneca Crane**

He hadn't imagined a set of tributes this promising. Past Two, none of what each district coughed up managed to make a good show. But several of the others besides the tributes from One and Two were beginning to show some sort of what looked like good Games material.

From what Seneca could tell by watching and taking mental notes which he scribbled down at night, Districts One and Two would last a while. District Three didn't look terrible, though Four, Five, and Six weren't nearly as hopeful. Seven and Eight were alright, Nine was actually high in the rankings as well as Ten. The male from Eleven was going to make it to the end so far as statistics and inferences went, but the girl . . . Seneca doubted along with everyone else that she would make it past the Cornucopia, never mind a full day.

Then there was Twelve, whom he had just witnessed disarm a fully-armed and professional trainer in under three minutes.  
Seneca had been watching the girl—for she looked older than she was. Deceiving in every way, that one. He needed to keep a keen eye on her. He knew she was different from any other of the tributes since the moment she was reaped.

Seneca's mind flew back to last night at the Tribute Parade. Twelve was always just a dreary ending, but they really pulled it all off last night. Flames lighting up the night, her steely eyes reflecting the light dancing around her body. Everyone had taken special notice of the tributes on fire.

He had craved seeing her in person. From the second her cold eyes connected with his, he was driven wild. Who was this girl who had captured the attention of the entire Capitol in one fiery entrance? And how did she do it?

Seneca had scooped up a rose. It was the very one she had caught halfway through the Parade. He had hurried as quickly as possible up the stairs and finally came to the elevator, slowing his pace and trying to walk as normally as possible, even though he wanted to run forward and touch her, see if she was real. Her reputation, her being, her every fiber was very unreal to Seneca Crane.

He had introduced himself, shaken hands with Haymitch Abernathy, and then handed her the rose. Her eyes troubled him. They were so cold and frozen over like an ice wall. The gray-green was startling. Her beauty couldn't be described in the words he heard whispered around him every day since the reaping.

She was truly as radiant as the flames that surrounded her.

When she reached out to take the rose, he caught a whiff of what smelt strongly of licorice and lavender. He immediately felt a strange arousal. Seneca left before it became obvious, making sure she couldn't see the small wound in his hand from the rose. Why ever had he hurt himself over delivering a rose to . . . a tribute, of all people! Not one of the fancy Capitol women that always seemed to be hanging around. He probably wouldn't buy any of them a rose anyway. Except the one woman who was exceptionally pretty, and smart at that. She had told him she loved him.

That was something he had never told any woman before.


	9. Author's Note

Okay, guys, firstly let me say I had four to five chapters typed, edited, and ready to post before Christmas break. Then semester tests hit as well as wayyy too much homework. We go to school for eight hours a day, is eight hours more of homework not enough?!

Anyways, life's a hater, and on New Year's decided it would be super funny if my hard drive died on my laptop and all of my files couldn't be retrieved. Don't fret, we have a family friend who is a computer god and is going to try and get my files. Until then(and when I've saved up my life's money AGAIN for another laptop) you'll just have to hang with me.

My advice:Back up every freaking file on your computer. My crash was totally unexpected and the only stuff I had saved on a flash drive was school stuff...

P.S.-Never work with your laptop on your lap or bed(it can't breathe then, I learned) so instead set it on a desk or something.

Please hang in there and give me some time! You guys are the best! :)


End file.
